Midnight in Jerusalem
by Midnight-Blues1
Summary: Work in progress. AU focusing on a romantic Baldwin and Sybilla relationship.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This story is an Alternate Universe fiction, and focuses on a romantic relationship between Sybilla and Baldwin. Therefore, for the sake of fiction and character development, I may intentionally or unintentionally defy certain aspects of historical or medical fact, or social creed. I do not wish to offend anyone who is knowledgeable or personally familiar with history or leprosy, or mislead those who are unknowing with that which is not true. Should any of these points stir your opposition, please do not read further. You have been foretold.

I hold no rights to 'Kingdom of Heaven.'

Additional note: I do not believe that anyone can choose whom they love or who loves them in return. It just doesn't work that way.

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PROLOGUE

Years ago, people could still bear to look at him. Touch him. Many years before that, he could even venture to recall that people truly loved him. He was a strong youth. A son of promise. A beautiful boy who would play with a beautiful girl in the gardens. Her dark luminous eyes, would follow him through time even when others would turn away. He remembered their childhood days ever so clearly. It was all that remained of what saw as pure, untainted happiness. The world seemed so perfect then. Under the stars, they would sit at the edge of the pond within their mother's garden, make stories, and laugh at their reflections.

Young Baldwin idly dropped a stone into the water, stirring the fish below. The face staring back at him momentarily tore apart before finally resettling itself. Such a curious phenomenon; he always thought it was a strange effect.

"Sybilla, do you think it will always do that?"

The girl raised her nose above your small bouquet of flowers. "Do what?"

"The water. When it breaks, the world inside breaks. But, it heals itself again every time. It does weird things to our faces."

"I don't know. But it cannot be real." She poked his arm playfully. "I know _you_ are real."

Smirking, Baldwin reached up and started to tickle her sides. She gave a shriek, followed by mirthful giggles. "And I'm real, too! Stop it!"

As she hugged her sides to catch her breath, the flowers slipped into the water. Baldwin stopped her from reaching for the sinking bouquet. "No, Mother will be upset if you fall in!"

He got up and roughly pulled out a new bouquet from a nearby flowerbed. "She will think I did it. And then…she'll take you away. Then you'll only play with girls." He looked down. "I don't want to be alone."

She took the flowers from him and held his hands. "You'll never be alone, brother."

"They say that I will be king when I grow up. But if that happens, will you still stay with me? And play forever? Will you--"

"BALDWIN!"

He gasped. "Mother! I--"

She stood before them, a tall, regal woman with a sharp gaze and an unpleased grimace. Wrapped in royal silks and glistening with embroidered beads, she stood like a stern goddess before them. She was also well versed in the spoken word and written letter; her authority was respected and her children in particular knew it well. Thus was the upbringing of the noble class. One glance at the torn flowers told her many things. But she was a very moral character as well, and though Baldwin and Sybilla were close, loving siblings, it was unclear whether her reaction was from what she'd seen or from what she'd heard, if that actually were the case..

"Sybilla, it is late. You must go in for tonight so that you may rise early for your tutor tomarrow. And you, Baldwin, come with me."

The two obeyed with a single response. And as they parted ways, Baldwin looked back at his sister for a moment. The question was still lingering in his eyes, though Sybilla, walking away, never saw it.


	2. Changes

"Stop! Don't touch me! No more!"

Baldwin spun around, away from the old man, waving his arm at him in frustration. It was a terrible, unfortunate fate. Beauty was such a fickle thing. It stayed with whomever it wished, and left ever so quickly. In short time, Baldwin began to turn 'ugly' and he did not know why. The nobles' children stayed away, their mothers forbidding them to even touch him, for fear of catching his curse. Wherever he passed, he did not need to know that they would turn their heads, or, if they did look, looked in pity. At 13, after the death of his predecessor and uncle, he was crowned. He became Baldwin IV, the King of Jerusalem. But the shame of his body grew to be too much. It was easier for people to relate to one who shared the same face as themselves, so it was then that he had his 'new skin' made. A bronze shield with a boy's face it was, but cold and impervious. Unchanging and perfect; the keystone of his authority. Now he was 17, and the lone ruler of an entire city, though few could guess that he even aged behind the mask. It was unfortunate that the world could not see the beyond it.

"My lord, please! Be careful!" cried his physician, exasperated in his final inspection. The routine examinations were extremely uncomfortable moments for the young king. Each time, there was something new or something different, but it was always worse. Baldwin abhorred being touched.

_I will not lose to this._

When he was younger, it had always been his physician who would fasten his bandages. Now he only provided them. Baldwin refused to be treated as an invalid, regardless of his condition. He could lead an army, ride a horse, and wield a sword as well as anyone, if not better. But a man who could not bind his own wounds was not worthy of being a man. Jerusalem was in need of a strong man, and an able king.

Baldwin gave a final tug on the last strip of linen.

"There. It is done. Now let me be."

"Yes, my lord."

When the physician had gone, Baldwin was left to himself in his vast, sun-bathed room. When he sighed, he sounded more like old man than a young one. He fixed his eyes on the delicate white curtains that weakly shielded him from the outside. As white as his robes. They were like ghosts, constantly hovering in his presence, waiting to envelope him in his time. When the wind was strong enough, it was almost as if they would reach him from where he sat on his bed.

_Will they wrap me in those when I die? Wrap me in the warmth of something clean, so that I may cling to it on the way to heaven? To hide myself amongst the angels?_

Each day, he held together the fragments of a fragile peace in a hostile land. When they were not in heated dispute, his court kept a keen eye on his frail health like vultures. Perhaps it was some form of morbid entertainment for them, counting his days as if he had not been doing so for the past eight years. They had merely to wait until he fell; then surely the sands would become an oasis of blood once more. At times, he wondered if his affliction was the price for his seat in God's kingdom. _If such is true..._

He eyed his chess table, whose ebony and ivory pieces stood in perfect formation, ready for war.

_...then I have known humility all my life._

The soft sound of approaching footsteps reawakened his senses. Quickly, he got up and walked into open archway where the curtains hung. The sun was warm and gentle today. Hopefully, it would ease what would come next.

"Baldwin?"

"Yes, Sybilla. I am here."

She entered the room and gazed at him with his back turned to her, his hands behind him, his head slightly bowed. In her hands, she carried a wooden box, which she held in an uneasy grasp. In truth, she loathed with all her heart what she was doing, even though her brother would have chosen no one else. As his conditioned worsened, Sybilla had only grown more beautiful. Her skin was soft and flawless; her eyes were like jewels, and her hair was a veil of curly silk that flowed all too easily over her shoulders. It was as if whatever beauty he might have had was being sacrificed on her behalf. Already, she had many a suitor seeking her youthful hand. Envy was something he felt every now and then, but jealousy, never. Not for all the world. When he had first began to suffer the disease, it was Sybilla who would comfort him in the night, and hold him until he feel asleep. And it was she who would re-bandage his hands when he tried to tear them off, as they would irritate him terribly. She had helped him step out of the realm of childhood, so that he could become who he needed to be. He would rather rip himself to pieces than wish onto her even the slightest mark of his fate.

_I can feel it when you are near…my comfort, my memory._

"Do you…have it, Sybilla?"

"Yes." She replied quietly. "I do."

"Please. Bring it here. Into the light."

With a breath, she brought forth the box, the scent of roses following in her steps..She would be strong for him, if not for herself. For this would never happen again. As her brother turned, she lifted the lid of the box for him. His hesitant reaction was expected. Inside, was a new mask. One of silver and more beautiful than the one he was currently wearing. Carefully, his gloved hands removed and lifted out. Its polished surface was as enchanting as it was ominous. Sybilla set the empty box down on a nearby table and took his arm, squeezing it gently. She closed her eyes as her brother spoke.

"I knew this one would not last forever, Sybilla. I can no longer wear this boy's face. This face will be my last—the one I shall wear as a man." This was why he had asked for her. He would have no one else deliver to him the final walls of his new prison. The thought that Sybilla had carried it personally might warm its cold touch.

"Thank you, Sybilla. Please leave me, now…I can do this alone."

_It is better this way. She does not deserve to see..._

He stiffened as he heard her step back.

But reaching back to unfasten his mask, he felt her hand come over his. As he turned, Sybilla stepped close and put her free arm around him, pulling herself to him. "Perhaps. But I will not let you. I cannot."

He replied softly, "One look at me and you will wish you never had." Yet as much as he longed for her to leave, he could not deceive himself with a half-hearted wish. His arm curled around her waist. "Why would you bear this?"

When she did not immediately answer, he added. "It will not get better afterwards, Sybilla. The physicians do little more than acknowledge my own observations; they cannot slow it, they cannot stop it. Why do you still wish to see? Do not pretend that it does not frighten you…I can…feel it."

He enveloped her fingers in his own.

"I stay because...because my eyes have never left you. Not then, and not now." Her eyes were sparkling with tears of sadness and encouragement. And for him alone. "I will take you for all that you are and nothing less. If there is nothing more that I can do, then so be it."

She would not so easily obey his dismissals for she knew in her heart that they were empty. He was wishing to spare her, but then there would be no one else to console him in his time of weakness. Their parents were no more; it could only be her. Together, their fingers loosened what held the mask to her brother's face. He heard her breathe in sharply as he removed it, but she had steeled herself against flinching. She would bear it with him at all costs. His eyes had always been bright, but his cheeks had wasted away. His lips were thin and colorless. His nose was collapsing. What was once firm flesh only a year ago was now either limp or starting to stretch over his facial bone structure. "Living death." He whispered.

His words sent a chill through her. What answer could she give?. Blinking away her tears, she gazed upon his face. The curtains billowed around them, slightly tempering the harsh glare of the sun. Warm, like Baldwin's embrace. He stiffened when she touched the right side of his face. It was the most decayed part of him. The ugliest.

She delicately traced the deformed ridges of skin from his temple to his chin. _Why could not have the disease spared him this? __Shown him mercy_?

She swallowed. "Living, Balwin…living nonetheless." She then removed her hand, and replaced it with a soft kiss on his hollowed cheek. It was not the first kiss she had given him, as she had kissed him before when they were children, but it was by far the most soothing gesture he had ever known. He held perfectly still, too surprised—or fearful--to break the moment.

_If only I could tell you Sybilla..._

All too soon that precious time was gone. He looked down at the silver mask they held. Sybilla spoke again, her voice filled with new strength. "Never forget that, Baldwin. So long as any of us take breath, we live. And will live on. You are our king. You are...my king."

He gazed at her for the longest time before nodding silently. "Indeed, Sybilla. Indeed."

He did not intend on allowing Sybilla to see his face again. Ever. For in the coming years it would become absolutely hideous. The silver mask fastened on and remained secure. Only then, when Baldwin appeared satisfied with it, did Sybilla turn to take her leave.

"Wait." He pulled her to him one last time, and holding her briefly, gently pressed his silver lips to her forehead. In his heart, it was a poor attempt to reciprocate her love, but little did he know that it made no difference to her.

"Thank you...Sybilla."


	3. Sybilla's Burden

"There will be no end to his suffering, Sybilla. One day, he will die. And then, should not a successor be found, you must crown one in marriage. Jerusalem…must live under God."

"…yes, Mother."

Baldwin IV was a wise and able king. He was loyal to his God and faithful to his people. Great were the words spoken of his rule, but greater still were the words spoken of his appearance. The mask which shielded their prying eyes became a double-edged sword, for it augmented their imaginations of what may exist behind it. As a result, Baldwin had yet to court a prospective wife. Jerusalem, as holy as it was, remained a dangerous place for women of noble blood. Noble Christian blood was even scarcer in the shadow of the Jerusalem's aristocratic corruption.

Their mother had forseen the handicap of Baldwin's condition long ago, when the boy first began his struggle with leprosy. "His line shall end with him. Grow to be a worthy wife, Sybilla, to uphold his legacy when he is overcome."

Mother had spoken thus to her in Baldwin's presence when she was 12, to instill in them the acceptance of what was destined; death and fate. Baldwin had looked up at Mother with his eyes filled with determination. She was cold with her logic but she would have faith in her son. Baldwin would prove himself. He would be a good king, upright and strong. He would not fear death—rather, it would be the road towards death that would trouble him the most, and he had short time to become acquainted with his new challenge. Sybilla stood close to him as Mother lectured; this way, she would not see her reach for his hand and hold it tightly behind them.

Eight years later, neither had married. At age 20, Sybilla sat in her private chamber overlooking the garden below. In her thoughts, she tensed her grip on the armrest of her chair. Her choosing of a husband was no different than preparing her brother's deathbed before his very eyes. Each day was precious.

_I beg Thee, God,_ g_rant him time. Grant him strength. Do not let his body break him._

Her choked voice was barely a whisper. "Please."

A knock at her door broke the silence. Sybilla grabbed her scarf and dabbed her eyes. The knock came again. "Lady Sybilla."

"Enter."

A guard with five servants carrying bundles entered and bowed. "Your Ladyship, I am here to announce the arrive of one Dreu de Ricaud, of France, who humbly requests your audience below." With a gesture, the servants bestowed their loads of exotic flowers, silks, and perfumes upon her lacquered tables. "He sends tokens of his admiration and prays that they may please you."

Sybilla let out a breath and rose. Her brother would most likely be occupied with his affairs until the later hours. "Thank you. I shall see to him shortly. Please have a private banquet prepared for our guest."

Outside the palace walls, the gates opened for a gentlemen and his train waiting quietly on horseback. He urged his steed forward as the guards gestured for his entry. The heavy doors closed behind them, and he was greeted by Jerusalem's marshal, Tiberias, who stood before them in the common. The young man and his followers dismounted. "I am Dreu de Ricaud of France," he bowed, "and have business with the Lady Sybilla, from whom I have arrived with permission. I must fulfill the courtesy of making myself known to the court."

Tiberias scratched his chin and looked over the lad. "You have traveled far from your native land to this place. Have you heard much of our King Baldwin IV?"

Dreu nodded in reply. "Yes sir. I have heard from my family's court of his reign over his holy place, his safe keeping of its grounds from the hordes without. They say that few have seen him, but the breadth of his mind is great."

The old advisor smiled. "Well, then, on your business you may be excused. I ask your forgiveness, but the king is a very busy man." He took hold of the horse's reins and began to lead it away. "He already knows you're here."

A great, elegantly carved table was set within one of atriums, far from the noise of the palace gates. It was laden with pitchers of wine, roasted meats, and sweet ripened fruits. At on end Dreu de Ricaud took his chair, escorted by a palace servant. He was a strong young man in his twenties, but the desert heat was not something he was accustomed to. Had it not been necessary for impression, his fine velvet tunic and robe would have long been exchanged for the much cooler native silks. The sparkling wine in the pitchers tempted the strength of his thirst. He had only heard of the Lady Sybilla from emissaries on their return from Jerusalem, and had dreams of meeting her. He greatly hoped that such a woman would be worth his efforts. _The high lords themselves have married those with whom they have but met once. I should not complain that I need not have her if she is not to my liking._

Behind the empty chair positioned across from him, there stood a great door through which the princess would appear. Dreu picked up his wine goblet and examined its fine metalwork. He had seen such goods upon the backs of many a merchant, laden with other goods unavilable to those of his country. _What wonders these barren lands yield. The holy oasis of God surrounded by a fiery sea. Where sin is cleansed and souls reborn. The riches of this city are indeed fit for a Christian king-- a leper king, at that. But how elusive this king is!_

Just then a servant opened the door. "Announcing Lady Sybilla, Princess of Jerusalem."

Dreu quickly replaced the goblet and stood up from his chair. Oh, there she was, a beauty in the woven fineries of God's kingdom. Her many scarves fluttered around her as she approached, glittering with gold. Her dark eyes filled him with questions and their gaze pierced his heart.

He stepped up to meet her, bowing as he kissed her soft perfumed hand. "I am Dreu di Ricaud of Dordogne Comte, France; first son of Baron Marquis II. The stories of your beauty have run far in my country. I hope you have received my gifts well."

Sybilla bowed in return. Despite the heat, her guest's attire was immaculate. Not a hair out of place. "I have, and you shall receive my thanks."

They sat and the servants took their cue to pour them wine. As quickly as it was served, Dreu swiftly emptied his portion with a most refreshed approval. "As sweet as that of my own vineyards!"

She smiled and took her drink silently. "I am glad that you have had a safe journey. It is a dangerous path to Jerusalem."

Dreu grimaced. "Indeed. Several times my men and I have encountered bandits. But the holy land is enough reward for accomplishing the journey alone. The sun is no man's friend, much less the horses'."

"The sun has had a history of keeping some men in, and some men out. Have you come to seek your fortune or your future?" She delicately plucked a small bunch of grapes for her plate.

Eager to make his intentions known, the young man answered with conviction. "Both. The stories that I've been told hold true. You are a _very_ beautiful woman, Sybilla, fit for any court in France. Or better. I am in line to receive my father's title. The land of our province is plentiful and prosperous, and we have done business with your city's merchants many a time. I am certain that any of your prospective travels to my homeland would not be disappointing"

Sybilla was well versed in the art of conversation, and bestowed upon him gracious smiles and praise for his accomplishments, though whether or not they interested her was irrelevant. They continued their meal as they ventured into more approachable issues of discussion; fashion, culture, and namely, Dreu's courtship. But some aspects were inevitable. The young man was simply captured by the look in Sybilla's eyes when she spoke to him. There was something about them that was utterly fascinating. What she offered in words was only a hint in what she kept within them. At times he couldn't tell what she was thinking even if she were spelling it out for him. If this were always her effect on men, he would be luckiest on in France if he could garner her affection. The nobles would still their hearts in envy.

Sybilla rested her chin on the back of her hand. "I am flattered by your constant admiration. Your eyes move yet your lips say nothing."

"I entreat you, Sybilla, do consider for yourself a stay in Dordogne Comte in the near future. The hospitality of my house will be memorable."

The woman laughed good naturedly. "Ah, anxious Dreu. I am tempted. But currently I have duties to attend, and I must stay in Jerusalem for the time being."

"Well, will not your king brother permit your leave? I have not seen him, but I am sure he is a well and just man. Such beauty! It would be a waste if not seen by the world." He laughed and drank.

And his mirth was met with silence.

In an unperceived instance, Sybilla's gaze hardened into ice. However, she kept her tone smooth and cordial. "Be wary of your words, Dreu di Ricaud. You may find all that you seek in Jerusalem, but you may not necessarily leave with it--especially if you must request a king's pardon…or his sister's."

The dangerously casual emphasis on her last words was something to be reckoned with. The young man instantly paled at the realization of his folly. He was unused to courting women so spoken. In fact, she now carried herself with the sharp wit and dignity of a man. He recovered himself quickly. "Your forgiveness please! A thousand apologies. I have greatly overstepped myself."

With their goblets refilled, their conversation resumed back to the good-natured sort. At last, Drue raised his in toast and smiled. "A fine meal, Sybilla, in a fine city that the western countries have never seen. To the health of Jerusalem! Long may it live!"

This time, his words were innocent, but they froze Sybilla's heart. She breathed in sharply. In that moment, the weight of her mother's words rushed back to her. Marriage. Legacy. Death. With an aching heart, she felt guilt in her merriment. _Baldwin..._

Noticing her sudden change in mood, Dreu looked at her carefully. "Sybilla?" .

"Oh--I was--caught in thought." Uneasily, she raised her wine. "To the health of Jerusalem…long may it live!"

As Dreu tilted his head to drink, something briefly caught his attention. Behind Sybilla, in the shadows of the terrace above them, he could have sworn he saw something move. It was white and flowing, and gone as quickly as his initial notice.


	4. Reasons

"To the health of Jerusalem…long may it live."

_You say it with such sadness…but I shall not leave you today. _

He wished he could have seen her face. But he had watched long enough to notice how the dark wine quivered in her goblet, her fingers grasping the stem as if it held poison. Her voice brimmed with mixed emotions. As she spoke he could not help feeling that she wished to say something else. Sybilla rarely talked about the future.

_One day, dear sister...it shall claim you. It shall claim us all. _

Baldwin retreated from the edge of the terrace and proceeded to his chambers. For the most part he seldom visited this area of the palace, though on occasions such as today he allowed curiosity would get the better of him. He had little use for the atrium's space anymore.

The life of a leper would be bitter, as he found out years ago. The life of a leper _king_ was no better, though in different respects. On rare occasions the daughter or sister of a prominent noble would arrive. It was almost flattery. He knew well the underlying consequences of a betrothal in his surrounding political affairs. Jerusalem's peace had been nurtured with years of the utmost care and delicate interactions with the Muslim world. Therefore, it could not be bestowed upon or shared with just anyone for the mere sake of its riches or prestige. It could not be bought as a step to be closer to God. And it could not, for any reason, be used as a fanatical outpost for war upon sacred soil.

Yet despite his skillful diplomacy, in the eyes of foreign powers Jerusalem remained all that and more. It had always been so. As he ventured further away from the atrium, his memory drifted back to the last time he had used it to host a guest of his own. It was quite some years ago.

She was Clara Spannoocchi of Siena, Tuscany, daughter to one of Italy's most illustrious families. There had been a lengthy correspondence with the patriarchs of her house in regard to the appeal of her marital potential. On her mother's side she possessed the wealth of vast estates; on her father's, a strong relationship with the church.

Her uncle Bartolo, a large, proud man whose fortune stemmed from his fine trade in ships, had escorted her personally across the sea and sand. If their emissaries had been correct, her beauty had been passed from her mother, a refined woman of equally refined tastes. Clara was young and already quite a lady; a light veil covered her dark, curled hair, her manners were pristine, and she had a complexion that shone even fairer in the desert sun.

On the surface, she had an excellent upbringing; he remembered almost every detail. Her eyes were the only things he could not recall. She had met his gaze once and never again.

She spoke little in his presence as most of the conversation was kept between her uncle and himself across the great table. A successful merchant, Bartolo was adamant about the additional prosperity his family could offer the desert city. "There would be enough wine to grow gardens in the dunes! They say the Muslim kings have their temples crowned in crescents of gold. Would that such ornaments be our sacred crosses of equal caliber. That _alone_ is worth God's grace!" Bartolo clasped his hands together, wringing them in the display of his ardor.

Baldwin countered. "There is currently a peace kept between our peoples, and our gods. It would be best to see that such is prolonged as much as possible. Our lives exist too closely to not take care." The king looked directly at Bartolo as he spoke, though the man did his best not to notice.

Then, with genuine seriousness, Bartolo replied, "_Caution_ does not necessarily yield protection as the fruits of your labor. Trust is dangerous commodity to bestow upon those people. Their honor is doubtful. In my country, there is no one who does not know God, for they know what is true and good. As I speak, there are many in my company who would come here to safeguard your city of Christ. Do not be so modest, my lord. As it is now, the walls glisten under the sun!" Bartolo eyed the king questioningly. "Would you not say that such pleases God?"

Baldwin rested his chin on the pyramidal formation of his hands, his elbows propped comfortably on the arms of his chair. A challenge in faith; he was hardly surprised. In Baldwin's moment of silence, even the zealous Bartolo started to feel the chill of his shadowed gaze. Clara trembled uncontrollably. At last, Baldwin spoke.

"Jerusalem…is not what it is merely because it is ruled by men."

Bartolo twitched with a huff. "Well, that _is_ an interesting way of looking at it." He took in Baldwin's cryptic words with mild consideration and swiftly emptied another goblet, his brow furrowed with some deep thought. Baldwin had no need for wine and Clara had politely refused any drink from the servants. But remembering her withdrawn presence, Bartolo offered his goblet to her and insisted, "Ah, but you must, my dear Clara. You are tired. It will be all the better for you."

Clara's lips quivered and Bartolo's tone hardened through his smile. "Drink."

As Clara took to goblet from her uncle's hand, Baldwin stole a direct glance at her. He could only imagine the amount of control she was exercising to keep the goblet steady in her grasp. Her knuckles were white, but when the goblet met her lips she did not spill a drop. When she accidentally met Baldwin's gaze, she smiled a tight, timid smile, and quickly lowered her eyes again. She was learned, obedient…and absolutely terrified.

"She has all the makings of a fine young bride, does she not?" Bartolo chortled, taking back the goblet and motioning for a refill. He was akin to a fat merchant proud of his cattle. His round cheeks were glowing from the sweet liquor's warmth.

Baldwin gave Clara a slow nod, his voice gentle as he regarded her. "A lady indeed. A prime example for one so young."

Her slender fingers curled in her lap. "Thank you, my lord. I do not deserve such high praise." Baldwin leaned back in his chair.

_You've taught her well, my good Bartolo, she will certainly make a fitting bride. But pawns are many in this game we play. Her confidence--and your merry proposal--I am afraid, are false._

They never met again. Baldwin's years of living in a mask had allowed him to assess his audience without notice: their gestures, manner of speech, and emotional response. And because he displayed no face of his own, they often had no clue as to just how well they were being read, or for how long. Beneath her composed exterior, stilled by the gently clasped hands and seemingly modest, downcast gaze, Clara was little more than a pretty pawn in fine clothes.

It was unfortunate. She was pleasing, elegant, and from any other lord's point of view, worth every benefit of her betrothal. But to Bartolo's later dismay, it was not nearly enough for Jerusalem's king. From Baldwin's observation, avarice followed prosperity as closely as Bartolo's supervision over Clara. Surely she had become another noble's wife by now, courted and betrothed in some similar manner of feigned benevolence. After his meeting with her, Baldwin had no other personal visitors, by circumstance and by choice. Baldwin's bandaged fingers brushed lightly against his pale robe. A choice made reasonably. Still, beauty had its own curse in this world.

_Sybilla._ The thought brought his mind back to the image of her and the young man, Dreu. Whomever she chose, or whoever would pursue her, it would ultimately be by his authority that she could give her hand in marriage. It would require his…conscious approval.

'You will never be alone, brother,' she had said. Her voice was so clear.

_Could you have truly meant those words, Sybilla? Out of duty or out of love, will I one day know your heart's truth? Could I ever reveal to you my own heart's desire? My one, guilty wish?_

He did not dare attempt to answer his musings, unspoken as they were. He arrived at his chambers and disappeared into the vast room lit with torches and embellished braziers. The day was coming to a close and he was expecting company within the hour. He had received news that a friend of his had fallen from fever. It saddened him greatly to have such ill tidings in already strenuous times. Yet surprisingly enough, the friend had a son who would come to lay claim to the property held under his father's name. Balian, they called him.

Baldwin sat down upon the seat at the edge of his carved desk and began to document the necessary proceedings for tomorrow's agenda.

_Balian, son of Godfrey. Now Baron of Ibelin. What is it that you seek here? Your fortune… or your future?_

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**Author's note: **'Clara' and her family's role is fictional, but the Spannoochi family did exist in the 12th century, in Siena, Tuscany. It is believed that the Spannocchi were part of one of the great feudal clans that, along with the church, controlled most of the countryside of Tuscany during the medieval period. Members of the family continued to be active in the life of Siena into the 1800's. Today, Castello di Spannocchia still stands.


End file.
